What He Knew
by Rosellyia
Summary: Harry Potter 'just knows' things. Tom Riddle just assumes he's an idiot. The things they couldn't have known… An odd sort of time-travel fic. AU. eventual HP/TMR. slash.
1. Chapter I

**Summary:** Harry Potter 'just knows' things. Tom Riddle just assumes he's an idiot. The things they couldn't have known… An odd sort of time-travel fic. AU. HP/TMr slash.

**A/N:** An attempt at **slash** between Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, though currently almost completely imperceptible in this beginning. Probably no real plot or action until a few chapters in—if there even is a few more chapters because they are currently non-existent. Just a random snippet of something I had on my computer... Unedited. Yeah...

P.S. Have a problem? Read it anyways :)

**Also, it doesn't hurt to leave a** **review **even if it's a flame (though preferably not a flame)**.**

* * *

**What He Knew**

Chapter I

Tom Riddle is a bad boy.

Not a bad boy in the sense that he was some sort of broody, angst-ridden, James Dean wannabe. You know the type; often identified by characteristics or traits such as:

• _Being the ones that girls fawn and flock towards despite their ice-cold personality, evident annoyance, and harsh disparagements._

• _Being capable of inducing some sort of awkward hormonal craze in their victims, causing them to fall all over themselves just for a chance to suck him off (or something equally romantic) and sometimes these said victims even get the chance for a quickie, if they're _really_ lucky. (Isn't that so much more romantic than just fellatio?) It's always so passionate and deep with these blokes (no dirty puns intended, you sick minded freaks). _

• _Being angsty assholes—to put it bluntly. They should come with a warning or caution sign stating that beneath the windswept hair, obscure ponderings, and soul-searching was an ass of epic proportions with one too many problems to list. _

No, not in that sense at all. That'd be awkward on a few levels, sick in some, and just plain wrong on a couple more.

Tom was only _six_.

However, tiny four-year old Harry Potter could, and would, argue against such an assumption. ("It doesn't matter if he's six or six_ty_, badness has no limits!" "He is always icy-coldy _and_ real mean!" "All the girls always chase him around like widdle puppies—puppies are _so _cute—with flowers and purty smiles, and it's just so…odd." "He is an _ass_—but don't tell the matron I says so, it's a baddie word! Just like Tom Riddle is a bad boy.")

After all, it was little Harry Potter who first realized Tom Riddle was a bad, _bad_ boy. A proud discovery on his part, not quite worthy of an 'Eureka!', but a shining moment nonetheless.

He didn't know how he figured it out—none of the adults had, and they know _everything_… at least according to Amy Benson they did—but it was like he had a flash of genius and just _knew_.

He can still recall the very day his epiphany descended upon him—well, only some of it, really, but he'd insist that he remembered most of it to sound more credible. You couldn't exactly blame cute little Harry for forgetting some minuscule details, after all, it was also on that day that he got his first taste of chocolate; the sheer taste was almost enough to make Harry forget his own name.

But remembering only most of that day was good enough for Harry.

It was enough for him to know.

...

They had been on a wondrous adventure to Vauxhall Square, visiting that little patch of green grass and the old fountain that rarely spluttered out a single drop of water. Harry knew that it wasn't really an adventure—"Who'd ever go explorering somewhere so B-O-R-I-N-G?"—but he'd rather think it was in contrast to the reality of the truth.

Harry was surprisingly astute and astoundingly observant for a four-year boy.

Sometimes, he looked as if he could see right through you with his bright green eyes. Eyes that occasionally looked _far_ too old to be worn upon such a young face.

It would have been more disconcerting if he hadn't such a short attention span, nothing seemed interesting enough to hold his attention for too long.

As it came off, the puppy-like behaviour and childish views eluded people into believing he was just a normal kid. It made them forget that this little boy was unsettlingly knowledgeable for such a young child. It made them to ignore how unnatural it all was, because the thought of anything else would be simply _crazy_.

That being said, it was unsurprising that no one noticed how Harry was smart enough to realize these little trips arranged by Mr and Mrs Cole—they weren't married, by the way; their last names were just a coincidence, as they always insist upon introduction—weren't really so innocent as they pretended to be.

They were sinister, these 'adventures'.

...

Harry knew the truth, but he didn't understand.

Or rather, he understood but just couldn't grasp onto the concept of why and, more importantly, _how_ he knew.

The truth about Vauxhall Square was the first time Harry experienced having the knowledge of something that was not possible for him to have acquired on his own. Knowledge that was abrupt and unfamiliar in their complexities.

It was quite similar as to his realisation about Tom Riddle.

One second he would be oblivious, but in the very next moment, BAM! Then, afterwards, he _just knew_ things.

It always happens suddenly, these strange conclusions. His thoughts were his own, and he was conscious of what was running through his mind, but it was like he had no real control of all the gears processing the information through his head.

It wasn't like he couldn't control himself; nothing ever forced him to think of certain topics or act upon specific impulses, it was just that sometimes he'd see something or someone and he'd understand things that he knew were far too complex for his average four-year old mind.

The fact that his four-year old mind could even come to such a realization was odd enough. The fact that his four-year old mind would ponder with in-depth inquiries about the source of this knowledge was beyond strange, and most certainly concerning.

It spooked him. Harry, that is.

In his head, there would often be the presence of certain logics and knowledge that couldn't be his under any circumstance. It simply was not possible due to both his young age and undeveloped mind.

But the way they lingered, with such an odd air of familiarity, all but confirmed that they were undoubtedly _somehow_ his.

Harry knew that everything was wrong in a way, off-kilter like uneven gears. But while he wanted to worry about it like he probably should, it always ended up being such a complete pain in the arse that Harry simply decided he couldn't be bothered.

The strain of the complexities and contradictions always put little Harry in a grumpy mood.

He disliked being cranky; everything around him seemed to become alive in anger whenever it happens. Sometimes Harry reckoned he was more afraid of that—the effects of his ire—than the weird thoughts that flew through his head.

To avoid the headaches, and the odd anger that follows, he learned to just ignore the weird bouts of wisdom, taking them in with slight reluctance whenever they happened but accepting them as is.

Anything else was too troublesome—too _serious_—to deal with. Like said before, Harry decided he couldn't be bothered with such _boring_ things.

Harry was only four after all. His interest in grave matters could only go so far.

Why bother trying so hard to understand and theorize about something so confuzzling when he had other, more important, things to worry about?

Like the horrifying lack of green crayons.

Now, _there's_ an issue that always had Harry wondering for proper explanations and quick solutions.

They—those pesky greens—were so elusive that Harry had resorted to colouring his trees purple and the grass red. Even when there was the rare pack of new colouring crayons brought into the orphanage, the green would always be gone by the time Harry got there.

Every. Single. Time.

Harry would bet on his favourite plush teddy that it was Tom Riddle who took all the green crayons… Only he was capable of such a travesty.

Only Tom Riddle was so capable.

Pretty, vindictive, _scheming_ Tom Riddle.

Ever since actually meeting him, Harry held an unnaturally strong dislike for the other boy, blaming him for simply everything and anything bad that ever happened.

Before that visit to Vauxhall Square, Harry had never interacted with Tom Riddle before, not having much of any opinion on the older boy.

However, Harry _had_ noticed him though.

Unsurprising; it was hard to ignore Tom Riddle.

Whether for his appearance, aura or intellect, it was obvious that Tom Riddle far exceeded the norm.

Most take a single glance at his face, and its angelic quality was all that was needed to simply enthral.

But it wasn't the boy's pleasingly symmetrical face or eerily clear green eyes that little Harry cared for.

He could really care less about the older boy's pretty features and creepy eyes. In fact, the unnatural perfection within Tom Riddle's appearance almost made Harry slightly unnerved by its odd lack of flaws.

He knew why that was later on, and the realisation unnerved him even more.

Rather than appearance, it was Tom Riddle's charismatic aura and intellectual air that drew Harry in. Harry couldn't help but find something appealing about the dignified way the six year old held himself, almost envious and revering of the casual elegance the other child wielded.

Harry even contemplated on approaching him once or twice before.

Tom Riddle always sat alone with a heavy-looking tome opened upon his lap, making Harry wonder if the other boy was lonely.

Harry wouldn't be surprised if the other boy was—lonely, that is. Harry himself was quite so, despite the children he sometimes strove to surround himself with.

That was the thought that first inspired him to be friends with Tom Riddle—maybe even best friends, because Tom Riddle looked like a really cool bloke.

He'd be the other boy's very _first_ friend, a thought that was appealing in itself.

However, while little Harry was rather open in his imaginations of friendship, the real Harry was quite shy. Unfortunately so.

With Tom Riddle being two years older than him, he had never managed to pluck up enough courage to approach the boy, let alone venture for conversation and propose to be friends.

Eventually, as time passed, the previous thoughts and ideals of friendship with Tom Riddle soon became sidetracked by the persistent presence of the other children at the orphanage, and the thought of approaching Tom Riddle became something unattainable. A mere whim of imagination.

That is, until Vauxhall Sqaure.

Harry didn't quite know the meaning of irony, but he found it ironic. That, while Harry had been the one to fantasize about breaking Tom Riddle's bubble of cold solidarity, it was really in fact the opposite that occurred.

Tom Riddle became the one to approach Harry Potter first.

Very soon after, Harry regretted any aspirations of friendship he held prior to that moment.

...

Harry had been hiding behind the broken fountain, wedged in a shaded niche with a scrap piece of paper and a worn piece of charcoal, when he saw a dark shadow looming over him. He had jolted at the sudden absence of his light source, looking on in exaggerated horror as the subject of his sketch flicked its speckled wings and flew off into the wind.

He remembers watching in sadness as the small bird glided through the air and passing over the rest of Vauxhall square in a few beats of its feathery appendages.

As the bird became a blur somewhere far off into the distance, Harry was free to indignantly turned his head up towards the intruder, only to find himself speechless at the sight of a sombre-faced Tom Riddle looking down at him with something akin to mild annoyance.

Licking dry lips and feeling them crackle under the pressure of his wet tongue, Harry cleared his throat and managed to hiss out an annoyed protest. "HEY—!"

He had probably dragged out the word for a few syllables too many as the older boy's face glowered down at him. Harry couldn't quite remember what the other boy then said, but he recalled the feel of the cold commanding tone and a firm grasp roughly pulling him out from the niche.

It was surprising how strong the six-year-old's grip was, but then again, it didn't really take much to move Harry—the tiny boy was beyond frail and malnourished.

Just one stiff tug and the little boy went stumbling and skittering onto the ground.

Tom Riddle didn't even spare a second glance at Harry as he calmly sat in the younger boy's previous place, opening up his thick leather-bound novel to a dog-eared page and began his reading. Like nothing just happened.

Like he hadn't just thrown Harry to the ground in annoyance over a place to sit.

Harry clearly recalled that it took all the willpower in his tiny body to hold back his teary-eyed tantrum.

Quickly springing up from the ground, he turned and hissed out something along the lines of, "That's my spot, you turd! You can't just take it! Gimme it back! You big, fat, turd-like _meanie_!"

He was completely ignored, much to his chagrin.

Tom Riddle didn't even flinch when Harry balled up his charcoal sketch and chucked the bunched-up wad at the other boy. Even if it had missed, landing pitifully in the empty fountain, Tom Riddle should've had the decency to at least spare him a glance.

But, of course, Tom Riddle didn't; as if he was unaware of his surroundings, Tom Riddle minded his own and went about by smoothly turning the page of his book, focussing all his attention upon the small text.

Harry had never been so angry before, but after a few minutes of being snubbed, he had to quell the urge to slam the other boy's repeatedly head into the stone fountain. Instead, Harry chose to stomp away angrily—knees scrapped and eyes watering—whilst petulantly glaring back at the silent boy.

Another moment in Tom Riddle's presence and Harry reckoned that he'd probably done more than give into his urge to bash the boy's head against the fountain.

From the slight tingle running through his chubby little fingers, Harry felt the temptation to take his tiny little hands and place them in an increasingly tightening hold around the older boy's throat.

While Harry and Tom Riddle's first actual encounter was, to say the least, hostile—at least on Harry's part; Tom Riddle didn't seem to be affected in any way, shape, or form, so it can't be said how exactly he perceived the incident—this was not the moment in which Harry concludes Tom Riddle is a bad boy.

No, it was in the moment of which Maggie Marple decided to take a tumble and crack her skull beneath a broken statue.

_That_ is when Harry realizes.

* * *

Maggie Marple wasn't the sweetest girl.

There was no doubt about that.

With her bouncy gold ringlets and sweet rosy cheeks, she was the perfect picture of innocence; though it was quite clear that she was anything but the cute little angel she tried to portray.

Some of the other children would even go as far as to say that she was downright evil.

But children often exaggerate; Harry didn't think that she was _evil_, per say.

Harry liked to see the best in everyone, even when they had a penchant for selfishly hoarding all the colouring crayons and tugging at other people's toys until they broke. He liked to see the best in everyone, even Maggie Marple and her bratty tendencies.

No, Maggie Marple wasn't _quite_ evil incarnate—Harry just thought that she was a very, _very_ annoying brat, being far too spoiled and _far _too full of herself for her own good.

In fact, she vaguely reminded him of someone else, someone twice as large but equally troublesome. He didn't quite remember whom, but something about Maggie Marple's brat-like behaviour struck that odd reminiscent cord within him.

Which made him find her all the more irritating for some reason.

Harry didn't exactly hate Maggie Marple, he just held a rather strong dislike for her; but still, he would never wish upon anyone what had happened to her.

It was gruesome, cruel. And he had seen it all.

The scene had given him nightmares even weeks after it occured, always making him wake in cold sweat as the chill of the air tickled against his tear-streaked cheeks.

Thinking back on it even now made little Harry shiver in fright, urging him to crawl onto his thin mattress and curl into his threadbare sheets until there was nothing but him and the darkness.

When it happened, ten minutes hadn't even passed since Harry had stomped angrily away from Tom Riddle.

Plopping down against a nearby tree trunk, he held a direct view of the older boy. Nursing his bleeding kneecap with the frayed edge of his too-big jumper, Harry had glowered with all his might at Tom Riddle, feeling sorely dissatisfied as the other boy calmly flipped through his book.

It was about five minutes into his one-sided glaring contest that he noticed a figure with bouncy gold curls and shiny red shoes approaching the niche where Tom Riddle sat.

Harry couldn't see very far—his eyesight always blurring whenever he tried—but the clickety-clack of those red shoes were a telltale sign.

Maggie Marple always bragged about them being a gift from her wealthy parents (who cares if they abandoned her in a dingy orphanage, they gave her shiny red shoes which made everything so much better). She loved those shoes very much, always spending an unhealthily long time rubbing them until their reflection shone with her pretty little face.

Those red, _red_ shoes.

Harry had watched as her figure skipped closer and closer to Tom Riddle, a strange sick feeling in his stomach telling him that something horrible was about to happen.

He felt guilty now, wishing that he had trusted his gut and just called out to Maggie Marple.

Harry had been close enough to hear them speak, close enough for him to have effectively warned Maggie Marple away.

"Hey, Tom," she had greeted with a small smile, her tone rather shy for the little girl. Maggie Marple had a tendency to be loud and obnoxious, her voice always screechingly high-pitched and on the wrong side of melodious. Seeing her so soft-spoken was an odd thing for Harry.

He ignored her.

That hadn't surprised Harry, not as much as it did Maggie Marple.

She wasn't used to being ignored, especially not by boys. By neither the young nor old.

Maggie Marple was well-aware of her own pretty face, well-aware of the effect a small, sweet grin could have on people, _all _of them. It should've even worked on pretty boys like Tom Riddle, even if his face was a_ slight _bit more perfect than hers (which was the only reason she approached him in the first place).

It was unacceptable that someone would deny her. _Could_ deny her.

_Maybe he just didn't hear me_, she thought, placating herself, _because __the other children can be so loud and annoying sometimes. Yes, that __must__ be it_.

"Hey, Tom," she had spoken louder this time, twirling her golden curls coyly with a delicate finger.

Perhaps she was trying to be cute or coy, but Tom didn't take any notice as he had ignored her once more. He didn't even bother to glance up.

_He probably can't hear me over all those horrid, dirty little brats_, Maggie Marple mentally assured herself once again. _I should march right over to Smelly Ellie and Stupid Amy to tell them to stuff it with a sock!_

She repeated herself once more, just a tinge of annoyance stinging at her self-confidence. This time she batted her eyelashes and practically purred like a cuddly kitten.

Harry had shuddered in slight disgust. _Cooties, lots of cooties_, he imagined.

Tom Riddle probably thought so too; you couldn't tell if you weren't looking closely, but little Harry was (not that he'd admit it), and he happened to catch onto what looked like a quick grimace flicker across the older boy's face. Seeing it, Harry had felt strangely gratified that Tom Riddle agreed with him on some level, no matter how large a prat he was.

Other than that odd smidgen of emotion crossing his features, Tom Riddle had continued to ignore his surroundings, flipping the pages of his book nonchalantly as he read with a surprisingly fast pace.

_At least it isn't just me that he's a big meanie pants to_, Harry thought with an odd feeling of satisfaction. _Plus, anyone who isn't fooled by Maggie Marple is on the saner level of things._

Maggie Marple, however, was _not_ satisfied with the response she was receiving.

Finally catching on that she was probably being ignored, her rounded cheeks puffed into a pout of annoyed disbelief.

"HELLO! TOM!" she shrilled loudly, clearly fed up with being ignored. "CAN. YOU. HEAR. ME?" Harry bet that the pitch of her voice was only a few decibels below that of which can only be heard by canines; it sure caused an odd ringing aftershock in _his_ ears.

Harry had been surprised that Tom Riddle didn't cringe away due to the close proximity his ears held to the sound. Perhaps he was even a little impressed by the perpetual stone-face Tom Riddle managed to maintain in reaction to the high-pitched screeches.

Tom Riddle was definitely annoyed though, his impassive features didn't cover the irritation in his cold green eyes. Glancing up a fraction from beneath long dark lashes, his face still remained directed at the pages of the book, his obvious disinterest evident through the raise of a disdainful brow.

"Yes?" he inquired coolly.

Harry had wanted to squeal in irrational awe at the sound of the six-year-old's tone of voice—it was cool and mature, amazingly _adult-like_ in the face of the terror known as Maggie Marple—but big boys don't _squeal_.

Harry wasn't sure what exactly big boys did, but it wasn't that and he didn't want that older boy Billy Stubbs to have another excuse to tease him. (He wasn't _that_ small, and so what if he cried after dreams of bright green lights and pretty women with hair of flame—they were _unsettling._)

Almost as unsettling as Tom Riddle.

Harry still remembers how that one quiet, composed word from Tom Riddle had sent Maggie Marple into a raging tantrum.

Her face had quickly turned from pale, pretty porcelain to cute, bubblegum pink to a surprisingly hideous shade of red. All in a single second.

Harry had almost been impressed by that more so than Tom Riddle's infallible composure.

Maggie Marple stomped a red shoe against the ground, childish in her indignation.

"I was talking to—" Tom Riddle didn't bother to hear the rest of her sentence, turning his bored gaze back to his book before red-faced Maggie Marple could finish. "OI!"

Harry himself thought it quite rude to brush someone off like that, but Maggie Marple had taken it as a blatant offense.

To her, it was some strange sort of declaration of war.

Harry would have grabbed her if he had known what she was about to do.

He had gotten shoved and scrapped up just for sitting where Tom Riddle wanted to. He didn't even wanted imagine what the consequences would have been if he had ripped that damned book up like he'd previously been tempted to.

Well, Harry didn't have to imagine much longer as that was _exactly_ what Maggie Marple did.

Face scrunched into an angry semblance of a pout, she had reached forward almost quicker than the eye could ascertain and grabbed onto Tom Riddle's book.

As she gave the book a hard yank, the crisp sound of pages being ripped could be clearly heard, making Harry wince in abject horror.

Tom Riddle's face had been surprisingly blank as the book got wrenched from his grasp, pages being torn as the momentum of Maggie Marple's pull caused it to fly upwards.

Pieces of paper softly drifted downwards in a deceptive calmness.

All three of them watched as the book hit the ground with a muffled sound, a corner of it landing into a small nearby puddle.

Water began seeping with slow pace into the book's inked pages, almost torturing with its leisure pace; though the damage had yet to be seen, Harry could see the disastrous results.

It was really much like Tom Riddle's anger, slowly creeping upon them until the damages became blown out of proportion.

Harry had initially assumed that the older boy was uncaring towards the situation due to his blank features, but as Harry had continued to watch, he thought he noticed a darkness shadow across those clear green eyes.

It was gone in an instant, and Harry had been about to dismiss it—_probably just imagined it_—but something told him not to.

Maggie Marple looked unapologetic, but a sliver of guilt shone in her pretty blue eyes.

"I, I'm—" she began as if to apologize, hesitant and stopping before the words could exit her mouth. As if thinking twice about an apology, her lips pursed and her tone did a complete three-sixty, "I mean, that wasn't _my _fault. If you hadn't been holding on so tightly, or if you hadn't been, you know, ignoring me, that—"

"Leave," Tom Riddle interrupted, no inflection in his voice. Harry had been surprised the older boy didn't say more.

Maggie Marple had looked affronted at the dismissal. It probably sparked her anger once more. "Look here, Riddle. That was _not_ my fault. It was all you. Like everything that ever goes wrong. It's your fault! I didn't want to do that, but you _made_ me, okay? You made me do that. This is your—"

She hadn't been able to finish her rant as a distinct hiss interrupted her. Harry sucked a breath in as he realized it came from Tom Riddle, it frightened him.

"_Leave,_" he had said, face still unaffected, but the tone he spoke in sent cold shivers down Harry's spine.

Harry didn't know why, but Tom Riddle in that moment reminded him of the frightening dreams about flashing green lights and scattered glimpses of red hair.

It clearly had a similar effect on Maggie Marple as she stared blankly at the boy, fear welling up in her eyes. "F-freak," she muttered beneath her trembling breath.

Tom Riddle did nothing but stare.

Clearing her throat, she roughly stumbled back a few steps before turning to bolt away with lagging strides.

For a moment, both Tom Riddle and Harry had watched as Maggie Marple turned tail and ran, the former in satisfaction and the latter with a dreadful feeling in the pit of his stomach.

As soon as Maggie Marple was too far into the distance for his eyes to clearly see, Harry had turned to look at the other boy, eyes widening in surprise to see clear green eyes staring back at him.

In that moment, Harry was frightened silly; not only by the odd nostalgic connection churning within him, but also by the sharp gleam in those light-coloured eyes. It had chilled his bones to the core, dread escalating each and every moment that their eyes remained connected, but somehow Harry hadn't been able to bring himself to drag his gaze away.

Then, Tom Riddle smiled.

Harry felt himself grow completely cold, like there was ice that ran through his veins in the stead of warm blood. Droplets of sweat had begun surfacing from the pores of his forehead and neck, leaving a cool trail as it trickled down the column of his throat.

He had been beyond frightened at that moment, stuck in a horrified state of shock. Yet, unable to turn from the sight.

Of the other boy smiling.

It hadn't been an unpleasant sight; Tom Riddle had pleasing full lips that pulled back just enough to show of gleaming white teeth. In fact, his smile would melt a regular soul with its authenticity.

And _that_ was what scared Harry.

The smile had been so real, so _genuine_, but Harry could only felt a terrible emptiness at the sight—complete and utter emptiness.

It had seemed like hours had passed as they stared at each other—an odd scene with one boy looking like Christmas had come early and the other with clear abject horror scrawled across his face—but in truth only seconds had passed.

Tom Riddle turned away first, smile and all, leaving a frozen Harry staring at his profile.

He hadn't seen what happened next—too transfixed, too _horrified_—but a scream within the distance was all he needed to know.

The sharp shrilling sound would sometimes still echo in his head.

The sound snapped Harry from his stupor; he had quickly turned towards it, abruptly wishing he hadn't when his eyes met the scene.

Maggie Marple's body lay like a broken doll on the ground, motionless beneath a hulking mass of gray stone. Her red shoes stained with a deep crimson, slowly seeping from the entirety of her body onto the small patches of grass littering Vauxhall Square.

The ground itself looked as if it bled red, soaking in the blood just as well as the pages of Tom Riddle's book had the puddle of water.

Harry had absently wondered if there was some sort of symbolism to that. Poetic justice, perhaps?

He didn't know what had happened, but as Mr and Mrs Cole rushed onto the scene—from wherever they had previously been doing their 'business'—the other surrounding children had begun screaming and crying out attempts of explanation.

They had cried that the broken statues littering the Square had moved by themselves. That one had animatedly jumped onto Maggie Marple and crushed her like a bug.

Needless to say, the adults didn't believe a single word; one frantically going for help and the other scolding the children for such lies.

Completely horrified at the images that had rushed through his head—what had happened, suddenly clear—Harry snapped his head back to Tom Riddle.

He was calmly sitting in his niche, unaffected, his book placed in front of him as it reclined with languorous ease against his lap.

It seemed that in the few minutes Harry had taken to watch the ensuing chaos, the older boy had gotten up and fetched the book from a few feet away and collected all the scattered pages.

Harry was astonished to see Tom Riddle so strangely put together as he tranquilly arranged the torn pages into the book with deft fingers, almost nonchalant as he smoothed and straightened out the cover with the quick press of his hands.

Those clear green eyes leisurely flicked across the pages of his damp novel like nothing had even happened.

Like he couldn't see the sight in front of him.

Like Maggie Marple hadn't just been crushed beneath a statue of a crying cherub.

Then, Harry noticed it.

It had been almost imperceptible because of its subtlety, but it was definitely there behind the edge of that infernal book.

Tom Riddle was smiling. A genuine smile.

Cold, cruel, _content_.

That is when Harry knew.

Tom Riddle is a very, _very_ bad boy.

* * *

...


	2. Chapter II

**Summary:** Harry Potter 'just knows' things. Tom Riddle just assumes he's an idiot. The things they couldn't have known… An odd sort of time-travel fic. AU. HP/TMr slash.

**A/N: **Attempted a tiny!Tom PointOfView... Surprisingly, it was quite hard. Ugh. Wrote it four times over and still not satisfied. Oh, well. I think this about as good as it gets. Can't wait to get to older!Tom. This chapter just threw my story a bit into the comical side, I think. Not good?

**Please read and review**, flaming is okay if that's what tickles your fancy (you weird, weird person), **but it'd be great if I could get some feedback on tiny!Tom POV, it's giving me anxiety when I write... Oh, and please tell me if the Tom/Harry interaction is well-characterized.**

P.S. **(parseltongue) **within dialogue.

* * *

**What He Knew**

Chapter II

Tom Riddle lay upon his bed; arms leisurely crossed behind his head, an open book thrown to the side, and his drab grey covers tucked neatly beneath him.

He lay in silence, relishing the undisturbed quality of the atmosphere, listening to the contrasting commotion emitting from beyond his door.

He could hear the scuffling of the children from beyond his door, Mr Cole drunkenly babbling to himself loudly from down the hall, Mrs Cole pacing along the corridor with shuffling steps.

Thinking about the Coles and the past few weeks made the left corner of lips twitch upwards into a semblance of a smirk.

...

It has been almost a month since the Maggie Marple incident in Vauxhall Square and everything was going just as Tom had planned.

Well, Tom hadn't initially planned to drop a stone cherub on a bratty little girl, but as soon as Margaret Marple had decided to open that gaping hole she like to call a mouth and proceeded to disrespect him before actually daring to _touch_ something of his, he reckoned he could make an exception to his initial plans and work the situation to his advantage.

And he did, with the utmost pleasure.

Not only did he manage to shut up Maggie Marple—_that screeching little shrew_—but he also stopped any future visits to Vauxhall Square.

A victory on both ends of his virtual playing field.

But while he could care less if Maggie Marple was dead or alive—or just simply crippled for the rest of her miserable life—he felt a sliver of true joy and excitement bloom from the fact that he'd never have to see Vauxhall Square ever again.

Vauxhall Square; a vanquished villain that once terrorized Tom's world.

_Disgusting_, he sneered in silence each and every time he came to look upon it. That was the single word that most efficiently described Vauxhall Square as a whole.

Vauxhall Square was disgusting. A disgusting place fit for those who lurk within its looming shadows.

While dilapidated and unassuming in appearance, nothing could hide from Tom what _truly_ happens beneath its the layer of aging dirt and decaying grime.

It sickened him to even think about it, and served as yet another apt reason to never trust anyone.

Yet another point to his list, a list that Tom couldn't even remember starting—though he did know the ins and outs of every detail to every reason upon it.

_With no trust, there can be no true betrayal_, was the general gist of his mentality.

Unlike so many other children, Tom had never any faith in adults—_they're just as unreliable as the children they're responsible for_, he reasoned, almost spitefully.

In fact, he never saw the point of having something as malleable as 'faith', whether it be for children, adults, or something greater.

Faith was far too fickle for his liking.

Perhaps Tom didn't even have faith in himself, not needing something like _belief_ to sustain his certainty of being.

He did not trust his existence to be the product of some higher power, or believe that he was formed from some sacred union of _love_—yet another petty emotion; weakness—Tom just _is_, he exists and that's all.

He found that faith tends to overcomplicate things, often leaving him questions that he is yet to be able to answer.

But putting faith aside—especially considering his severe lack of—it was rather the _things_ that Mr and Mrs Cole were able to condone in order to secure what they desired that truly lost any semblance of respect Tom had for them as human beings.

Tom was aware that he himself was no saint—far from one if you were to judge by the thoughts that frequented his mind—but he knew that he was never so weak-willed towards his own desires.

Desire; it was as fickle and mercurial as one's emotions.

It revolted Tom that the Coles were so spineless that they couldn't even resist their own cravings, allowing something immaterial like _emotion_ to usher and control them.

They simply allowed it, Tom noticed with loathing. _Craven fools. Weak, powerless, disgusting.__  
_

He hated how it was so shamelessly easily for them to be compelled by desire. He found it repulsive, how they were constantly nurturing their baseless urges with a pitiable, mindless sense of desperation.

They were willing to do whatever it took to satiate their cravings, using whatever means possible—means such as the exploitation of children.

To think that in their desperation they had even tried tempting _him_ into one of their darkened niches, with toys and sweets nonetheless.

Tom scoffed at the blatant insult to his intelligence, amost able to imagine the feel of Mr Cole's windpipe being crushed beneath the pressure of his hands whilst wondering how long it would take for Mrs Cole to bleed out if he avoided any major arteries upon her fear-slicked body.

Perhaps if they had simply left him alone, he probably wouldn't have begun plotting against them.

Tom is no hero; he was repulsed by the idea of Vauxhall Square, but he had also been indifferent to notion of fixing the problem. Initially, he had deemed such an endeavour as a complete waste of effort and a rather irresponsible choice of action.

As cold as it was, Tom simply didn't care for the sufferings of others as long as it wasn't him.

Tom's own sense of self-worth was so exaggerated that unnecessarily risking himself out of selflessness was not even something to be considered. He would never voluntarily do anything out of the 'kindness of his heart' unless he had a good, proper reason to. Even then, he'd have to evaluate the worth of what he would garner in exchange.

Watching the Coles slink through the shadows like pale ghosts themselves hadn't truly impacted Tom in anyway at first. Sure, it was rather irritating, but he would have lost nothing in letting their seedy dealings continue if they simply hadn't bothered him—after all, who would reward him if he'd put in efforts otherwise?

Tom reckoned he was probably even willing to let the bribes of candy and plushies slide if they hadn't pushed it.

Unnecessary difficulties with adults was also something Tom found himself better off avoiding; it was inconvenient for him to actively retaliate when there was a blatant difference in the power he held versus that of the Coles'. Not to say there aren't any other types of power apart from that which the Coles held—some of which Tom would easily wield if he so wished—but he would have stayed mum if only to avoid any unnecessary inconveniences.

However, when the pliant words and tactless briberies failed work, the Coles had actually attempted to forcibly drag him into their dealings, effectively making sure that all his previous notions of reluctance were quickly overturned.

Tom had no qualms about ruining people, and the Coles had all but given him their permission to do as he wished—inconveniences be damned.

It was only by chance that Maggie Marple decided to annoy him on the same day, but Tom was nothing if not opportunistic.

He knew that just one flick of his finger could initiate a scheme that had the ability to slowly ruin the Coles from the inside out.

Tom knew their desires, and he was going to capitalize on them, using their own weapons of destruction as his primary choice of artillery.

He exploited their desires, used them just as they had used all those other children.

Now, he was simply waiting for them to tear themselves apart.

Tom knew that it wouldn't be a quick and easy process, but he didn't care.

He wasn't going to stop until those sorry excuses for human-beings fell prey to their own devices—victims of his own brand of poetic justice.

When Maggie Marple's blood ran red through the cracks upon the dirty ground, Tom felt no guilt. He felt nothing but a small shred of utter delight and an eager anticipation for what was to come.

It had been only the first of many steps—his move against Maggie Marple—but he could already taste the satisfying burn of blood within its results.

Tom had seen the abject horror on the Coles' faces when Maggie Marple lay there in a pool of her own blood, obnoxiously red shoes blending into the gore.

They'd known just as well as he did what the broken girl lying in Vauxhall Square meant.

When the clunking sounds and sirens sounded louder and nearer, an obvious alert to incoming enforcements, Tom had felt a sweet sort of gratification as he watched the longing horror on both of the Coles' faces make a slow but obvious appearance.

In that moment, he had taken away whatever source they had to satisfy their addictive desires.

Not only would the grievous injury Maggie Marple received prevent any justification for further visits, but whatever lurked in the depths of Vauxhall Square was bound to be discovered by someone, somehow, and sometime soon.

_Revenge may be known to be both bitter and sweet_,_ but this is only the appetizer—and it tastes just as I wish._

In that moment, Tom felt so gratified that he'd even allowed a rare show of emotion to grace his features while he looked upon the scene before him.

It felt odd and foreign upon his lips, almost _too _odd and _too _foreign for his liking, but he permitted it nonetheless.

A smile.

...

And so, a month passed in relative peace.

The Coles evidently weren't fairing well from the withdrawal, Tom noted with a cruel pleasure.

While both parties seemed to be in a state of constance sufferance, Tom was rather curious that of the two Coles, it wasn't the high-strung Mrs Cole who happened to be worse off. In fact, he found it rather amusing to see how easily the 'big and tough' Mr Cole crumbled.

Mrs Cole had become a ball of constant anxiety and shaken nerves, but Mr Cole was the one that faded into something even less than what he once was.

Mr Cole scarcely ventured about anymore, no longer choosing to terrorize the occupants of the orphanage with his loud posturing and brash attitude. The man had opted to hole himself up in his room for the past month, not showing his face for anything more than the daily sustenance he required. From the sounds that could be occasionally heard from within the man's room, Tom suspected the man took up spending his days in an endless cycle of constant inebriation versus the after-effects of the hangovers. Sometimes Tom could even hear the man sniffling and sobbing from beyond the muffling of the door.

_The poor bastard_, he thought in mockery, a callous sense of satisfaction engulfing him each time he'd hear the man weep.

Tom had yet to do anything else to further whatever scheme he'd planned, but he found that he rather liked the current situation, and so he found that there was no need truly rush.

_After all, I'm not getting out of here anytime soon and none of them are ever going anywhere._

Slowly unfolding his arms from the position behind his head, the fixed orientation making them ache a bit, he crunched up to an upright posture as a knock sounded upon his door.

"Tom?" A muffled voice inquired from behind the door. It was probably Mrs Cole judging by the slight tremor in the pitch of voice.

Tom remained silent, staring at his door like he could see beyond it. He wondered how long the woman would stand there if he didn't respond.

"Tom?" Her voice was a bit louder than before.

Tom didn't respond.

"Tom?" she asked again.

Silence.

He could hear deep sigh on the other end as scuffling steps began heading away from his door. Then, as if she'd changed her mind, the scuffling footsteps slowed and sounded back.

Another knock. "Tom?"

Tom knew he was being purposely infuriating and disrespectful by ignoring the woman, but he couldn't bring himself to care. This time he wondered how long Mrs Cole's trembling questions would last before she snapped. He wanted to see if she would storm off in anger or barge in with indignation.

"Tom?" she asked, huffing in frustrating before continuing on this time. "Get out here this instance, young man. Dinner is starting in the dining hall within fifteen. If you are not there for prayer, then you simply won't eat."

Tom obviously didn't care enough to reply.

"Starve for all I care, you _wretched_ little child," she hissed softly beneath her breath.

The footsteps scuffled away once more, slowly fading out into the other sounds that came from outside.

_That was slightly disappointing_, Tom thought with a slight frown. He'd been looking forward to seeing the older woman snap out with volatile emotion, dismayed that the woman had just gave in—and so easily, at that. _Perhaps I'll try Mr Cole next time._

Grabbing his worn gray jumper from a nearby chair, he slipped the woollen material over his collared shirt as he got off his bed. Straightening up, he fixed his rumpled collar with one hand while smoothing out his thin bedsheets with the other.

Finally satisfied, Tom stepped over to his door with quick, languid strides. Grasping the cold brass of the knob, he pulled it open and exited out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him.

...

As the door clicked shut, a small object seemed to fly out of nowhere, and taking advantage of his unguarded posture as it harshly collided into his ribs.

Tom winced as he tumbled face first to the dusty floor, letting out a muffled grunt of pain on his way down.

He didn't even want to imagine how disgraceful he probably looked as a puff of dust sprinkled his entirety upon impact with the ground.

"Sorry!" the object twittered out from on top of him. It squirmed, pressing its weight further onto him, causing Tom to hiss uncomfortably. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorrysorrysorry_sorry_, I mean, I'm really, really, superduper—" the voice paused its spluttering as Tom flipped onto his back and pinned the offender with a glacial look. "Oh."

Tom vaguely recognized the object, narrowing his eyes as he tried to place the familiarity through scrutiny.

It was a boy. He looked about three or four years old; Tom found himself irritated by the childish protrusion of the boy's pouting lip and the shiny, rose-tinted apples upon his cheeks. Pale flesh that settled maybe a shade or two darker than Tom's own contrasted sharply with the boy's wild dark hair, which was caught somewhere between curly and straight. Actually, the monstrosity upon its head appeared to be more alive than possible as Tom swore a lock of it dared to twist out a cheeky wave at him. From beneath the uncut fringe settled across the boy's forehead, startling bright green eyes peered out from behind the strands as impossibly curly lashes shuttered across smooth cheeks with a rapid speed of blinking.

It was that boy from the day of the Maggie Marple incident, he finally concluded with a frown.

Tom had forgotten entirely about his existence. He had no real reason to remember the insignificant brat so he didn't bother to.

But thinking back on it, Tom vaguely recalled the glare that the brat had directed at him. It burnt him with its sharp green accusation and had, initially, served to make Tom somewhat wary over the possibility that the brat had somehow gained knowledge of his involvement in Maggie Marple's _accident_. It shouldn't have been possible, but those green eyes had dictated otherwise.

However, despite the knowing look within the boy's bright green eyes, the brat had chosen to neither tattle nor confront him after the incident. Meaning, within a few days time, he was placed into the back of Tom's mind and left there to rot.

Tom just assumed he had successfully scared away the little boy, and that had been the end of it.

Recalling that the brat was still sprawled across him in a daze, Tom roughly shoved the boy off with a harsh push of his hands. The small kid tumbled to the side, just as easily as he had in Vauxhall Square.

Turning away without an apology, Tom busied himself with dusting off the small specks of dust from his neatly arranged hair and clothing.

"That was your fault, y'know."

The indignant voice made Tom glanced back; it seemed the little brat was fine as he sprung up from the floor, not bothering to dust himself off. _Filthy_, Tom silently sneered, as the boy proceeded to sneeze onto the elbow his own sleeve.

"Really?" Tom inquired flatly, part of him curious as to why he'd even allowed himself to reply to the little brat's accusation.

"Duh," the brat scoffed, like it was completely obvious; the little brat was completely obnoxious. "I mean, _you_ were just standing in the hall like a block of cheese."

"Excuse me?" Tom wasn't sure if he was questioning the smaller boy with irritation or exasperation. _A 'block of cheese'? _Tom wondered if his hearing had gotten thrown from the impact of his fall.

"Are you dumb, too?"

Tom felt needlessly insulted by the little brat's slight on his intelligence, but before he could tell himself to ignore it like he should—like he normally would—a retort seemed to have instinctually slipped out.

"Clearly not," he snapped, "as I am currently replying to your baseless accusations and needless comparisons to standing blocks of cheese."

"What?" The brat looked genuinely confused, wrinkling his dark brows and adopting an angry pout.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Dumb. One syllable. Four letters. Definition: often an offensive term used to describe one who is unable to speak; most typically because of congenital deafness," he scoffed out with an air of superiority. "However, I'm assuming you are calling me 'dumb' as in stupid, which is also a false accusation."

The little brat appeared to be taken aback by his response, making Tom feel rather gratified.

"Whatever, you lump of butter. It's _your_ fault because you were 'needlessly' standing in the hallway like a lurking turtle, 'thus' making us hit each other," the brat accused before Tom could turn away and leave. "So there, dumb-head," he added in as an afterthought.

Tom was once again caught between irritation and exasperation. _'Lump of butter'? 'Lurking turtle'? What is wrong with this child?_ Tom questioned with a bemused silence_. _

Despite knowing that it'd be far more logical to simply ignore the brat, Tom found a quick reply unconsciously running past his lips, "If there is anyone currently present who is unworthy enough to be deemed something so witless as 'dumb-head', it's _you_, dumb-head." He didn't know what possessed him to say something like 'dumb-head' out loud, not once but _twice_, but he immediately regretted it out of shame.

"Hey!" the brat shouted angrily, placing chubby little fists against the waistband of his dusty trousers. He appeared as menacing as an angry kitten. "Well, um, well, uh, well…" Tom looked down at the shorter boy expectantly, already anticipating the next silly insult the brat would throw at him. "Well, you're an evil, little, bad boy who is really mean! YOU BIG MEANIE!" the brat screeched out the last bit as loud as he could, making Tom cringe back with a wince.

"If anyone's little, it's _you_," he retorted, swearing that his right ear was actually ringing. "Not only are you something as uncouth as a 'dumb-head', but you have been unfortunately born into a reduced state. It's no wonder your brain has followed your body's example. You really are the literal definition of 'dumb-head', dumb-head," Tom couldn't resist adding on the last bit, no matter how childish it seemed. _Though __I can just feel my IQ drop every time I say 'dumb-head'_, he mentally reprimanded himself.

The brat stared at him, green eyes flashing in anger, as he seemed to be visually measuring the difference in height between the two of them; Tom appeared to be not quite two heads taller, and the brat clearly noticed as his lips peeled back into a silent snarl.

"I'm _not_," the boy hissed through his teeth, making a sharp contrast from the loud screech of before.

"Not wh—" Before he could goad the boy further (he wasn't sure what it was about the brat that made him want to bully him), a familiar mass of weight barrelled into him once more.

Bracing himself, Tom tipped backwards perilously before stumbling sideways to catch himself against a wall. He was not up for another tumble on the grime-covered floor.

"Control yourself, you little brat," Tom sneered, truly angered with annoyance as he shoved the small boy away.

The little brat seemed to be well-balanced as he righted himself in an instant, wildly waving hair flying about in more chaos than before.

"Shut up, you git!" he snarled, much like a wild animal, his hair only adding to the image. "Don't tell me what to do!"

Pushing himself off the wall, Tom stepped closer to the other boy and did his best to loom over him. The thought of a six-year-old boy looming over you wasn't frightening, but being the target of that venomous glare sure was.

"You better watch yourself, boy." Tom's eyes were an impossibly clear green as they glared down into the smaller boy's eyes, the brat's previous bright green darkening into a stormy mixture as he attempted to match Tom's gaze.

Upon meeting Tom's eyes for a moment, the brat looked to cower for a split second but immediately seemed to regain his spine.

"Or what?" he growled back. "You'll do me in like Maggie Marple? You will, won't you? Sick _freak_."

The brat instantly shrank back when the last word slipped from between his chapped lips, gulping hard as guilt and remorse seemed to clear up his angry green eyes, making them shifty and watery as he bit nervously at the peeling skin on his lips.

The brat looked utterly pitiful—lips trembling, chin shaking, and cheeks flushed in a disgraced red.

Tom didn't care; all he could hear was the word 'freak' being repeated in that hateful hiss.

He hated that word.

Grabbing the brat by the front of his shirt, he hauled the kid up with both hands and slammed him into the wall behind him.

Leaning in, he brought his mouth to the brat's reddening ear. "Don't you fucking _dare,_ you little _**brat**_," Tom coldly hissed his words, dragging them out before unconsciously slipping into the same tongue he used to speak with the serpents found in the tall grass out back. "_**I will gut you alive and strangle you with your** **insides. **__**I'll watch in complete and utter **_**_glee_ **_**as the oxygen in your brain slowly dies out and kills you in the slowest way possible. I'll make you wish that I had the decency to drop a lump of rock on you like I did to that annoying little bitch. **_Make you regret ever being conceived as I slowly tear you apart from _inside out_," he finished with a sharp, guttural bark of English.

Eyes bright with watery tears looked up at him, face reddening like his ears from the pressure of Tom's fist against his throat. "I, I, I," he stammered out uncertainly with a croak, "**_I'm sorry_**." The apology came out in a familiar hiss.

Tom reeled back; so shocked by the hissing sound that came from the brat's lips that he let go of the brat, watching as the child slid to the ground in a crumpled heap.

_He can speak it too_, Tom blinked in surprise, not believing his own ears. _This impudent little brat can do it too. He can speak **it**._

Tom opened his mouth, for the first time uncertain of what he was to say, but before he could say anything at all, the sound of a door slamming open and a booming voice cut in.

...

Both boys turned towards the sound, the brat still sitting on the floor with that pitiable tremble upon his expression.

"What the fuck are you brats yelling about?"

It was Mr Cole, eyes bloodshot and angry as he stomped closer and closer towards them from the other end of the corridor.

"I'm fucked over and hungover, I don't have time to deal with shit from little shits like you." He was barking pissed, the bushy moustache above his lip looked to be quivering along with his rage.

Neither of the boys commented as they caught a whiff of the man's stale breath and body odour.

"Well?" he shouted, _demanded_. "Don't just stand there staring at me with those ridiculous faces. GET THE FUCK DOWNSTAIRS FOR DINNER OR YOU WON'T EAT AT ALL!" His voice seemed to escalate when he stopped in front of Tom, spittle flying onto the boy's face from the force of his speech.

_Disgusting_, was what immediately flew through Tom's mind, but his mouth decided to be more sensible.

"Sir," he said impassively, nodding his head as if in apology—a mere façade of reverence—before moving to step around the much taller man.

Before he could get around the older man, Tom felt a tightening grip upon his arm. He stilled, his breathing slow.

Quicker than Tom was able to react, a force harshly struck him across his face. He hit a nearby wall, the impact of Mr Cole's fist against his jaw had thrown him hard against it.

Tom clenched his jaw tightly as he felt a trickle of blood slide down his chin—he had bitten his lip to avoid calling out; he wouldn't give the man the satisfaction.

Picking himself up from leaning against the wall, Tom levelled his icy gaze up at the older man, not giving in when cold blue eyes glared back down at him.

"Don't you fucking look at me like that, you little bitch! Don't look at me with those eyes, you hear me?"

He raised his hand, feigning a threat to beat Tom across the face once more.

Tom kept his gaze steady, unwilling to give in.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear himself say, almost snarkily, that he was getting that chance he wanted, the wonderful chance to see how long it would take for Mr Cole to snap.

_Except, rather than having options such as 'storming in' or 'barging off' like it was for Mrs Cole, it's either 'get beaten across the face' or 'kicked in the ribs', probably both._ He mentally sighed. _I'll admit, just this once, such a wish was not one of my better ideas. Nevertheless,_ he though with conviction,_ I'm not about to let this drunken halfwit get anything over me._

"I said, you HEAR ME?"

Tom's clear green eyes just stared unblinkingly at the man as he tilted his head fractionally to the side—an unimpressed motion.

It presented an eerie sight. A complete stillness in contrast to the movement of everything else.

It took a moment for the adult to gather himself to respond.

Mr Cole gulped, unnerved, before shouting, "I can't fucking deal with you!" His face reddened into a puce-like colour.

Tom maintained his still features, allowing a flow of fresh crimson to trickle freely down the pale of his chin.

Mr Cole roughly jerked away from Tom with a shaky sneer. He seemed rather intimidated, but the man quickly covered such insecurities with a dramatic furrowing of his brows, paired an attempt to stare Tom down.

Tom restrained the urge to give his own sneer.

"Fucking _freak_," Mr Cole finally snarled out when it was clear that Tom could maintain a state of inertia for a very prolonged measure of time.

The man turned his angry attention towards the brat—who was still halfway from standing up properly after being handled by Tom.

The brat's own pair of green eyes widened at the sudden bout of attention, observing with apprehension as Mr Cole seemed to exude twice the anger he had before.

Tom tightened his sore jaw, wanting nothing but to drop the lighting fixture on the man's head. He could almost imagine how the man would writhe and scream in agony as the electricity fried through his nerves.

"Freak," Mr Cole muttered once more as he stomped towards the brat. "Fucking little freak of bloody nature. _Freak_."

From his peripherals, Tom caught a quick flash of guilt flicker across the brat's small face, eyebrows furrowing as the word 'freak' was sounded out again, much more louder, harsher and crueler than before.

Tom found himself wanting to strangle the brat even more he had prior to Mr Cole's interruption.

_I don't need your pity_, he thought spitefully. _I'm only holding off exacting my annoyance because you just may as well prove to be useful._ He hadn't forgotten what had transpired before Mr Cole decided to emerge from his cave of vodka, whiskey, and cheap alcohol. _Curious, curious, little brat._

Mr Cole was standing in front of the brat now, quivering moustache and all.

"What you doing just leaning there? Is this the respect I deserve?"

"No, sir."

The brat quickly stood up straight, fists clenching tightly until his knuckles stood out with an even starker white against his pale skin. His tone was so defiant that Tom could almost hear the unspoken 'because you don't deserve any respect at all' tacked onto the end.

He felt his lips unconsciously quirk up in amusement before commanding his features to fall back into impassivity.

Mr Cole, indignant, grabbed the brat by the front of his shirt, lifting him up until they were face to face.

_Clearly Mr Cole heard your little implication, too. Pity for you, _Tom thought, almost in mirth. He had no qualms about calmly watching the little boy being manhandled. In fact, it was rather amusing even. _That's what you get for being a c__heeky little brat_.

However, alongside the amusement, an edge of _something_ _else_ crept up on him as he watched the adult manhandle the tiny brat—but it was gone even quicker than it had emerged.

The brat looked positively miniscule compared to the grown man, though it was apparent that the brat had more guts than what Tom had initially presumed. His little face was fixed into his own defiant little mask of indifference, Tom noted with the slightest bit of regard.

"You doing that, too? You little shits! Don't fucking look at me with those eyes! Look _away_," he emphasised his shouted words by shaking the little brat, jostling him roughly—like he could just shake the obstinate look off the boy's tiny features.

Tom almost admitted to having a millimetre of respect for the small boy as he refused to give in to the much larger man.

Bright green eyes looked straight on ahead, chillingly calm, as if they were able to look right through whatever was in front of him.

_Those are fearsome eyes_, Tom thought, almost wary of what they could possibly see. They weren't the eyes of a bullied child prone to naïveté, but rather that of a grown man who's seen all the cruelties of the world and still lived to tell the tales. _Jaded. Cold. Defiant._

Mr Cole snarled wordlessly, shaking the brat hard once more for good measure before throwing him to the ground.

"That's your place, you fucking shit," he barked down at the boy before stomping away, stopping to glare at Tom once more (for good measure, probably).

Tom blanked his face from any previous amusement and let his cold mask of indifference fall over his features, staring right back with an icy glare of his own.

"Fuck!" shouted Mr Cole after a few seconds, fed up and storming away with a huff. He stomped into his office and slammed the door. The clatter reverberated along the old structure of the flooring and walls.

Tom found it unnecessarily childish, scoffing as he turned back towards the brat.

...

The tiny bundle was curled in on the floor, whimpering lightly.

After a moment of staring at the unmoving brat, Tom stepped away objectively, deciding that it wasn't his problem and headed towards the staircase.

Halfway there, he heard an unexpectedly loud groan that dissolved into a series of pitiful whimpers. Tom shook himself of the odd emotion creeping up on him. _Pitiful? I don't do pitiful._

Somehow, despite mental protestation, he found himself thoughtlessly turning back down the hallway towards the brat, who was still lying upon the dusty ground.

"Hey," he said, a foot away from the brat. "Get up." He nudged the brat lightly with his shoe for good measure.

Whimper.

Tom asked himself why he was doing this before nudging the small boy once more.

"Get up."

Whimper. Whimper. _Groan_.

Tom crouched down and sighed, not believing he was trying to help the irritating little brat. Rolling the brat over to see the damage, he heard a decided hiss when he tried prying one of the brat's wrists from across his chest.

"Get up," he commanded. "_Now_."

Scrunched eyes opened into tiny slits, a glimmer of green looking straight at Tom with visible pain. Tom felt an unnecessary tightening in his throat when those eyes opened wider and blinked out full drops of tears.

"Up," he barked, not wanting to waste another syllable on the child. Annoyance was beginning to creep up on him, frustrated that the brat was still just lying there, disobedient to his commands.

Deciding words and soft nudges weren't working as much as he would like, Tom grabbed hold of the small brat's shoulders and dragged him along the floor until he was properly propped up against a nearby wall.

The brat met Tom with widened eyes full of pained tears, lip quivering in its pout.

_The last think I need is for him to cry_, Tom thought, irked._ If he cries, I refuse to exert the effort to deal with it._

The brat surprisingly did not begin to cry after calming himself with a shuddering deep breath.

He opened his mouth and the words that spilled out were not what Tom expected.

"Are, um, are you o-okay?" he asked, clearing his throat as it caught.

Tom stared incredulously at the boy; not believing the brat was asking him that.

The brat didn't seem to catch on to Tom's perplexion.

"I mean, he smacked you purty hard…" If he weren't so surprised, Tom would have scoffed at the boy's ability to speak. "It looks really, um, ouchie." As if to emphasise his statement, the brat reached forward towards Tom's face with a sleeve-covered hand.

Instinctively, Tom flinched out of reach, uncomfortable with the progression of events, but it turns out the brat has a pretty strong grip. Using the same outstretched hand, the brat grabbed at Tom's arm until he was forced to sit closer, and before he knew it, the brat reached up and placed his dusty sleeve against his cheeked, swiping softly down his jaw until he reached his chin.

"What. Are. You. Doing?" Tom asked, tense.

The brat shoved his sleeve into Tom's face like it explained everything; now, along with dust and what looked to be charcoal stains, there was a small smear of darkening crimson. Tom recognized it as blood. _His._

Slapping away the outstretched hand, he quickly wiped at jaw with the back of his hand, trying to rid any left over evidence of crimson.

"So—" the brat began, dragging out the syllable until Tom found that he really wanted to slap the boy despite his injuries.

"What?" he hissed, just to stop the irksome trailing word.

"Are you A-OK?" The boy was surprisingly more chipper now, but Tom could see his other hand twitching angrily with mix of red and darkened purple staining the once pale skin.

Tom just looked pointedly at the injured hand in response. The brat followed his gaze, wincing at the sight.

"Um. I'm okay. I think."

"I didn't ask."

"Oh. Right."

Sighing as he felt another bout of tightening in his gut at the sight of the brat's downtrodden face, Tom forcefully grabbed for the injured hand's bicep.

"OW!"

Ignoring the protestation, Tom gently felt along the boy's hand and forearm, a sudden contrast to the previously rough pull. Reaching the wrist and seeing the boy hiss out, he stopped. Then, abruptly, Tom closed his hand firmly around the small wrist.

He almost felt gratified by the loud yelp the brat made. It sounded like a screeching cat.

"Why'd you do that, you big prat?" he yelled out, anger furrowing at his brows whilst he glared disbelievingly at the older boy.

"Not broken or fractured. Might be sprained," Tom responded coolly.

"What?"

Sigh. "I did a rudimentary check to see if you broke your wrist. You should still get it checked out by an actual professional."

"Oh." A look of guilt began replacing the previous irritation. "Oh. Um. Th-thanks a bunch," he mumbled out, peering down shyly.

Tom was faintly disgusted at the sentiment, but something in his cold heart lit warmly at the sight of the brat's pink cheeks and hesitant smile.

Scoffing out loud, at both himself and the brat, Tom got up from his position before any more unfamiliar feelings crept up on him.

Seeing that the brat was also getting up by himself, Tom decided that since the smaller boy had regained use of his legs, he was now officially no longer his problem.

Turning away, he walked back towards the staircase; hoping dinner wasn't over yet. He wasn't interested in cold bread rolls and watery stew.

About a quarter of the way there, he felt an unexpected warmth tugging at his hand. Looking down, Tom caught sight of a small hand clenching tightly on his own.

His first instinct was to pull away; his second was to find the owner of it before cutting it off and throwing it away, but that would be quite hard without any tools. Yanking hard to extricate himself, Tom followed the arm back to its owner, who was surprisingly persistent with its hold.

The brat.

The brat was _holding his hand_.

It seemed that everything about the brat made Tom feel caught between vexation, exasperation, and confusion.

"Why are you holding my hand?"

"Why not?"

"I refuse to partake in this foolish activity."

"My wrist hurts." The brat thrust out his pouty bottom lip like it would garner sympathy.

It would have if it were directed at anyone but Tom.

He cringed in distaste. "I fail to see the need for this."

The little brat clenched harder as Tom attempted to tug away again.

"Then, because we're friends."

_Friends? _Tom was once again disturbed by the brat's choice of words. '_Friends'? __When have I ever condoned such a thing? _

"We are not."

"We are so."

"No."

"Yeah."

"Stop."

"Friends."

"I refuse."

"We're friends!"

"We are _not_."

"We are so—"

"No."

"Ye—"

The repetition was grating on Tom's nerves, he quickly interrupted before the brat could continue, "I refuse to pander to your whims and give in to your childish attempts of argument."

"But you'll give in to my childish demands of friendship. Right, Tom?"

"Riddle," Tom said before he could help it. He hated the sound of his plebeian name, even as it came from the brat's lips.

"What?" the brat questioned in confusion, before pausing and letting a grin trace across his face. "You admitted we were friends!"

"I did no such thing."

"You did!" the brat insisted. "I said, 'But you'll give in to my childish demands of friendship. Right, Tom?' and you didn't deny it! We're friends, Tom."

"I did not _agree_ to anything."

"Doesn't matter, cookie batter! You didn't deny it," he stated forcefully, clenching hard at Tom's hand—he almost forgot the brat was still detaining the appendage within his sweaty little grasp—like he was afraid Tom would attempt to pull away. Tom tried, it failed. "And no take backs!"

_'Cookie batter'? 'No take backs'? Does the brat suffer from a sort of mental deficiency?_ Tom mentally scoffed in irritation. _The brat's lucky that he proved to be somewhat more, well, _more_ than all the others. He could speak **it**, which does make me wonder...__  
_

"What, pray tell, am I taking back?" Tom tentatively played along, in hopes that this irritation would all end all the more quicker.

"You can't!" the younger boy shouted, as if Tom had even the slightest idea what a 'take back' was and was actively threatening to do exactly that—whatever it was.

"What?"

"I said no take backs, so you can't take back the fact we're friends." Grinning a winning smile, the brat looked up at Tom with his bright green eyes. "Now we have to be friends forever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and—"

"_Shut up_," Tom demanded in aggravation. "I get it. No taking it back."

"You admitted that you understood! We're friends."

Tom gritted his teeth. _The brat is more cunning than he seems_, he thought in irate frustration. _A pity that he is so childishly juvenile that it makes me want to pop his head right from his shoulders._

"We are _not_."

"We are so."

"N—" Tom stopped himself, already seeing a familiar pattern of argument. He sighed. "Think what you will to satisfy your own baseless fantasies."

Yanking his hand harder than before, it finally came out of the brat's grasp.

"OK!"

The brat even had the gall to smugly grin at Tom.

Scoffing, he turned away down the corridor, shaking his head in disbelief. The brat was unbearably impudent for something so small and weak.

However, Tom had to give it to him. The brat was also _very_ determined (along with being incredibly irritating), his much shorter legs worked twice as hard to catch up to Tom, unwilling to let his prey of choice go without a word.

He trailed behind Tom for a good minute before Tom got fed up with the quick patterings of his small feet. The sound of it echoed loudly each time the brat's worn shoes tapped against the wooden floor.

"Brat," he spat, turning around with a harsh green glare. "Stop following me."

"I'm _not_. We're just going the same way, dumb-head," the brat said with a familiar condescending tone, sneering at Tom like it was obvious.

_That word,_ _again_, Tom scowled as it reminded him of the utter foolishness of everything that has just happened._ Strike speaking it, perhaps merely_ hearing_ it is sufficient enough to make my IQ drop._

"Brat."

"Excuse me?" Tom couldn't believe he was being called a 'brat' by _the_ brat. That had to be a conundrum in itself.

"You're excused." At the cheeky retort, Tom could feel the need to strangle the boy coming on once more as the brat continued on with his irritating little voice, "Harry Potter," he stated.

Sigh. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

The brat looked like he wanted to say something before thinking twice. "No, not yet," he said with a knowingly smile pursing at his lips. "I mean, we're to be friends, so it will, _eventually_."

The irritating (and slightly damp) hand clasped around his once more. It was smooth, warm, comforting—and it unnerved Tom.

"Harry Potter. _I'm_ Harry Potter. Not 'brat'. You've been calling me that, so I just thought you didn't know my name," he clarified. "My name's Harry Potter, but you can call me just Harry. I mean, since we're friends and all."

Tom fumed, opening his mouth to make some caustic remark, before stopping. He though better of that notion.

Ignoring the brat was probably much more ideal, lest Tom get swept up once more by the four-year-old's irritatingly provoking attitude.

No, he didn't wanted to be dragged into the childish antics again, this brat was childish enough for the both of them with plenty more immaturity to go around.

A hand tugged at his forcefully. Tom had briefly forgotten about the brat's grip upon him, unpleasantly reminded by the jerk.

The brat attached the hand seemed to find attempts to drag Tom along amusing, laughing uproariously to himself when the older boy scowled.

Tom sighed.

That is when Tom Riddle knew.

Harry Potter was bound to be the bane of his existence.

...

...

...

And why he didn't blast the brat down the stairs?

(He quite wanted to.)

That, he just didn't know.

* * *

...


	3. Chapter III

**Summary:** Harry Potter 'just knows' things. Tom Riddle just assumes he's an idiot. The things they couldn't have known… An odd sort of time-travel fic. AU. HP/TMR. slash.

**A/N:** Think I'm getting a hang on the characterizations? Correct me if I'm wrong :) I might have just went three-sixty in a bad way... Wow, didn't know writing fanfiction could actually give you so much anxiety. This may be a bit shorter than last, but it was originally one huge chapter which I split in two ;) I'll update sooooooon, yeah? I was actually going to publish this in a day or two, but I just can't stand waiting so long...

**Review**, or flame, you silly child, you, **but do leave some sort of something? Please? It'd be great if you could give me some idea how I'm doing with Tom and Harry's awesome friend-making skillz (skillZ, with a Z because it's just that cool—yeah, no.) Right, and thanks for all the favourites, follows and reviews, you basically are my life.**

P.S.

**Edit? Psh. Yeah, um, no.**

**Proof-read? Right. Who are we kidding here? **

I'd do a chapter a year if I do either.

...

(Do people actually read all that before the story?)

* * *

**What He Knew**

Chapter III

Harry Potter didn't exactly know how he got here.

He felt cold sweat gather between the creases of his left hand as its warm skin pressed up against the cool surface it was clutching. A cool surface that happened to be Tom Riddle's hand.

Harry really, really didn't know how he got here.

And what possessed him to dare to hold _Tom Riddle's _hand? Like they were _pals_? Better yet, what in the world was he thinking when he oh-so-boldly announced that they _are_ friends, to yell to the world their newfound relationship of friendship—with Tom-_freaking_-Riddle, no less? Who does things like that? The boy was an evil lunatic of epic proportions, who may or may not be the perpetrator in the Maggie Marple incident! Even if he wasn't a crazy murderer, Tom Riddle is still a bad boy! And mean! And a whole bunch of other horrible, terrible, terrifying things!

_Insanity_, Harry told himself, mentally beating himself over the head. _I definitely wasn't thinking in my momentary lapse into crazy-dazyness... Why, Harry Potter, why? Why do you have to do things like this?!_

Just a few days ago, Harry had been fine just dreading the very idea of Tom Riddle. It was the sane thing to do.

While almost a month had passed since the Maggie Marple incident, Harry still  
couldn't get the red, all that red, cleared from his memories. He shuddered at the  
very thought, Maggie Marple's blood stained red shoes flashing vividly across his  
mind.

He didn't exactly _fear_ Tom Riddle, but he wasn't unafraid, either. Harry was definitely very, very, _very_ wary of him, something just telling him that the older boy was bad, _bad_news.

While he can't explain how or even why, Harry was about certain that Tom Riddle had something to do with Maggie Marple's little 'accident' in Vauxhall Square. The suspicion was enough to warn Harry off.

It was true that little Harry Potter was a fan of tales featuring knights, heroes, and dragons, the legendary battles between good and evil, often dreaming of what it would be like to act as a champion of all that was just; but even little Harry wasn't delusional enough to think he was the hero in a story. He wasn't made of pretty words and fancy flourishes; he was flesh and blood—something Tom Riddle would probably mercilessly tear into given the chance.

So for the previous few weeks, Harry had pulled all stops when it came to avoiding Tom Riddle.

If Tom Riddle glanced in his direction, he immediately avoided eye contact.

If Tom Riddle walked his way, he would turn tail and flee.

If Tom Riddle was exiting his room (which just has to be next door), he would wait twenty minutes before leaving himself—breakfast be damned.

If there were even a _whisper _that Tom Riddle was anywhere near an area, Harry would avoid it like the plague for the rest of the day.

The only time Harry would ever be caught sitting in the same room as the older boy was during dinners, but even then Harry would wait until Tom Riddle sat before choosing the seat the furthest away.

Harry had never felt such need to avoid anything before, always opting to face his problems head-on with a courageous mindset, but when it came to Tom Riddle, it seemed that all previous notions of bravery were able to fly quicker out of the window than one could say 'coward'.

It wasn't that little Harry was afraid of Tom Riddle. Really.

Harry had just been, a little, let's say—unprepared for confrontation, whether it be mental or physical.

Harry may come off as flighty, easily caught up in his own fantasy world where everything was rainbows and butterflies, but growing up in the orphanage allowed Harry to also have a sense of realism and survivability.

There wasn't anything easy about living in an orphanage. Harry knew that there was a defined pecking order of sorts; the weak are preyed upon, the strong are in constant struggle. Harry learned at a very young age, much younger than he was now, that the only thing that was going to get you by in this place was yourself and the strength of your own willpower.

If little Harry were to compare the orphanage to something, he'd like to say a jungle, but even wild animals would cringe at some of the happenings that went within the peeling walls. At least some animals had the decency to abstain from preying on their own species, not something that can be said for humans.

Harry would like to ignore the facts but in the back of his mind he knew that he was alone in the orphanage; no one in here was going to give in just because you cry a few tears, no one here has the time for your pleas for attention, and most of all, no one in here has the will to care for you more than themselves because they feel just as alone and abandoned—and it was sad. It was really sad because the reality of everything was something little Harry didn't want to know, didn't want to admit.

Sometimes, he hated just knowing things.

Perhaps it was because of his reluctant knowledge of his solitude that gave him the nerve to do something so daring as declaring a friendship with the boy he feared ("But just only a _little_," Harry admits).

Perhaps he felt the reality of the situation was good enough for Harry, so he strove to make his own reality of sorts. He's never been one for the rules.

But perhaps, it as merely the loneliness that simply just got to him. There was no one who wants to be alone. "Not even Tom Riddle," Harry wanted to insist despite all evidence of otherwise. Harry would like to believe that everyone needs someone, even a bad child like Tom Riddle.

Maybe if Harry could make someone like Tom Riddle not so alone, the cruel truths about the nature of the orphanage would become rendered false. Harry quite liked that thought; it'd be like he broke some certain law of the universe (it would be quite the dream come true; he'd been for gravity, with no avail.)

Little Harry Potter didn't care if he was an opportunist or an optimist, but as soon as he whacked right into the older boy after a month of avoidance, this little plan somehow blossomed. Evolving from a stray thought into an irrepressible idea.

Despite their row after the initial impact (Harry was quite surprised he managed to wrangle a sentence or two out of the stoic boy)—and, boy, was Harry frightened when Tom shoved him into a wall—it seemed like the idea became as unstoppable as it was implausible.

This 'idea of friendship' was obviously something impossible—and judging by Tom Riddle's face, it was also something unwanted—but something within Harry urged him on, telling him to strive for the impossible, to break this standard stubborn of loneliness and abandonment. That same something told him that if he didn't give it a shot, something horrible, much more horrible than the sight of Maggie Marple's crushed little body, would inevitably happen.

But all that didn't matter now.

As soon as Harry reached forward, tiny hand shaking with both apprehension and exhilaration, grasping onto those cold fingers—he felt, for the very first time, fulfillment.

It was an odd feeling. Not one of happiness or need, but one of simple satisfaction. Like Harry was no longer the only one in this graying world; finally, reaching out, he had grasped onto the reality of which he was not alone.

He couldn't help but tighten his grasp, despite the many harsh protests that answered his grip. He didn't want to lose this feeling. No, not when he just found it.

When Tom Riddle had actually managed to pull his hand from the hold, Harry swore his word had crumbled, just a bit, at the edges. The feeling of abandonment swelled up within his tiny body—an emptiness beginning to devour his world, colouring it into the bland grays of before as it edged away from the reality Harry had been seeking.

But Harry was nothing if not persistent. He had been very much so up until that point, and that odd feeling he got from holding onto Tom Riddle's frigid fingers was not something he was willing to part with within moments of its discovery.

And so, he somehow ended up here; attempting to tug along an exasperated Tom Riddle while trying to avoid jostling his hurt wrist.

Boy, was this harder than Harry had first thought. Attempting to be friends, not tugging along the older boy—but that was quite hard too.

It seemed that after introducing himself, nothing he said or did could get the other boy to respond. No jabs or cheeky remarks could pry impassive lips open.

Harry didn't exactly want to be bullied, criticized, or harshly reprimanded, but only of Tom Riddle's snarky little remarks was better than the complete silence apart from their quiet footsteps.

The longer the silence, the more nervous Harry got, an edge of anxiety creeping up on him. The tension should have made Harry want to release the chilling fingers he clenched within his own perspiring ones, but it only made him hold on tighter, unwilling to give in to the vaguely uneasy challenge.

As the two reached the bottom of the main stairs, the bare few minutes of silence seemed like hours, so unbearable and tense that Harry was ready to let go of the hand. It was going to happen eventually, if not because of his really sweaty hands (which were sort of gross) then because Harry was almost willing to give in just so he didn't have to stay another moment in the agitating silence. Harry prayed that it'd only be because of the former rather than latter though, he found it more dignifying—well, as dignifying as a four-year-old could find it.

But then like some god somewhere decided to answer his prayer, Tom Riddle opened his mouth to speak just before they reached the dining hall where it was inevitable that they were to part ways. It was barely a shift of the bottom lip, but Harry was rather intent on the other boy's face.

"Yes?" Harry spat out in a flurry, words tumbling out of his mouth quickly and revealing his excitement. "Yes? Yesyesyes_yes_?"

Tom Riddle blinked twice, shaking his head and shutting his mouth.

_No_, Harry protested, _nononononono._

"You were going to say something right?" His hand tightening a fraction more, he was surprised the other boy hadn't lost circulation, but he supposed it wouldn't be obvious anyways if you were to judge by the temperature of Tom Riddle's hand (freezing). "Tom? Tom? Tom? Tom? Tom? Tom?"

A barely visible crease appeared between Tom Riddle's dark brows.

_Oh, shoot, I'm really annoying, aren't I?_ Harry mentally berated himself, watching as he caught the older boy's upper lip to slightly twitch.

"Oh. Um. Sorry. I'm really annoying, aren't I?" No response seemed to urge Harry on for some reason. "I'm reallyreally_really_—that's a triple-really, so feel really special, okay?—sorry, Tom? I'm annoying, right, Tom? Tom, you don't have to be shy, just say it out loud. Don't keep it in, Tom. Tom?" Which each call of the other boy's name, the crease between his brows became more and more prominent, which Harry seemed to ignore as he continued to prod for an answer. Prod. Prod. _Prod_.

Somehow, for the third time that day, Harry ended up getting shoved into a nearby wall. It wasn't that surprising, but he still winced as his head clunked against the peeling paisley wallpaper. Good thing he had the sense to shield his wrist before impact, awkwardly placing it between the two of them, as his other hand remained clutching at Tom Riddle's fingers.

Tom Riddle was proving to be quite a violent little boy, as he slammed a closed fist into the wall, just an inch from Harry's face. Harry stopped himself from twitching away in fear, eyes subconsciously brightening in challenge. Tom Riddle must have seen it as his impassive face broke into a visible frown, his own green eyes clearing in anger while he brought his fist back for another strike against the wall.

The whole thing probably would have had more of an impact upon Harry's nerves if Tom Riddle wasn't only six and didn't have his small six-year-old hands. The action of Tom Riddle punching the wall just ended up being an awkward cross between a childish tantrum and a murderous threat, which Harry didn't find that frightening (compared to the boy's smile, it couldn't even compete). However, he—quite smartly—didn't voice his thoughts out loud.

_God knows what he'd do then_, Harry shuddered, remembering the older boy's earlier threats of strangulation. _It's a wonder how I'm persisting… _Insert a mental pat on the back because no one else seems up for it._ The kid even said he'd do me in worse than Maggie Marple. How is anything worse than getting flattened into a pancake like a bouncy pile of dough?_

Harry didn't want to find out, gulping softly as he opened his mouth to speak when Tom Riddle showed no sign of movement or indications of speaking.

"Um, T—?"

The first syllable didn't even dare exit Harry's lips when Tom Riddle's hissing voice cut in, cold and to the point like a well-sharpened dagger. "Do. Not. Call. Me. That."

Harry should have just shut up and waited for Tom Riddle to back off. He was practically useless up against the older boy; having both hands incapacitated—one, injured and the other, unwilling to let go—plus being nearly two heads shorter than him should have been a good indication that further provocation was not advisable. But like a true victim of word vomit and bravado, Harry soldiered on as he let his dubious hold on survival go, just to take hold of the rather useless sentiment of bravery. Good job, Harry Potter.

"What you gonna do if I do, Tom?" And so, the words tumbled out before Harry could think of the many good reasons such a cheeky retort was inappropriate for his current situation. The 'Tom' at the end sounded so much like a taunt that even Harry wanted to hit himself.

_Why do I this? _Harry mentally whacked himself over the head, sighing profusely at his conditioned tendency to provoke people in verbal communication. Harry wondered why he always ends up responding that way whenever people use a certain tone with him._ What a spiffy way to make friends. Let's just hope I don't end up six feet under before the actual 'friendship' part of it all starts._

A cold hand cut off any further thoughts of friendship. Or rather, a cold hand cut off any further intake of oxygen as Tom Riddle's icy touch bit into the skin of Harry's scrawny neck.

"I just might _snap_," he said, his tone much calmer than his darkening eyes suggested—eyes full of hatred and something else, something softer, sadder.

_Snap?_ Harry focused on, all nerves now, not knowing whether Tom Riddle meant 'snap' as in temper-wise or 'snap' as in his neck. _Better not find out, because I bet one will lead up to the other…_

"I, I'm sorry, Tom," he said, or croaked. It would have been much more sensibly if not for him unknowingly letting the other boy's first name slip into the apology. "I d-didn't wanna make you mad or nuthin'. P'weaze leg'go!" He bit out his words more urgently as oxygen was quickly exiting his body, not caring for pronunciation or annunciation as black began webbing into his vision.

Tom Riddle had been steadily tightening his small hands against the younger boy's delicate throat. A stark white blooming in almost immediate contrast against the pale skin stretched across Harry's neck.

Tom Riddle leant in, putting more force into his hand, looking into Harry's watering green eyes with his own rage-filled ones. Harry thought he saw an edge of dejection somewhere amongst all that pure, uncontrollable hate—but it was probably only the lack of air that was making him see stuff, he reasoned. _Tom Riddle wouldn't have that look…_

He stayed there for a moment, watching as Harry gasped and gasped, the angry frown softening as the corner of his lip twitching up into something that looked suspiciously like a smirk.

Harry was in agony, pure agony. He could feel his lungs pulling uselessly for air, heaving heavily against his chest as his heart rate quickened, pitter-pattering hard against his ribs. His need for air made him want to scream but the pain against his throat prevented it as it ripped into his vocal cords. His vision was doubling; the black webs surrounding the edges beginning to branch in like ominous cracks on ice.

He managed to direct his gaze at the boy who was now almost impassively strangling him, meeting his blurred green eyes in a hazy apology. He felt his mouth form soundless, senseless words, hoping that one of them was a 'sorry'. He didn't know why he felt the need to apologize (_he _was the one being _strangled_), but some baseless sentiment of guilt had somehow crawled in as his breath left him.

Harry just knew he should feel some sort of regret for some reason, like he could understand Tom Riddle's anger. He wanted to match that anger so badly, lash out and beat the boy over the head until blood welled to the surface, but something within him, something older, wiser, was keen on making him understand the other boy's hatred and rage.

Harry didn't understand, he didn't want to understand, he just wanted to hit back with his own rage, but he couldn't, and all he was left with was an unsettling feel of guilt and regret.

He hated it, but his desperation allowed those feelings through, making him whisper barely intelligible words of apology to the person who was _strangling_ him. It made it even more unbearable that the words he was attempting to whisper were actually heartfelt even in his pleas of desperation.

Sometimes Harry wondered if there was a god somewhere out there who just hated his guts.

It wasn't even funny; he was being strangled, and yet, he was still making a sincere apology to the boy who flew off into some unexplained rage over something trivial like a first name. _Or was it trivial? _Harry found himself asking himself.

Then, like salvation of the grandest degree, oxygen reentered his system. Leaving Harry to gasp in air like he had just learned to breathe, ungracefully flailing about against the wall as he coughed up what felt like his right lung.

All previous thoughts of regret and apology were buried as Harry's fury kicked in, burying everything beneath his wrath.

_I can't believe he tried to kill me_, Harry though, caught with angry shock. _I can't believe he tried to strangle me. I can't believe he tried to strangle me to __**death**__._

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU TRIED TO MURDER ME BEFORE I'VE HAD DINNER IN SOME DINGY HALLWAY BEFORE I'VE EVEN LIVED TO SEE MY FIFTH YEAR OF LIFE BY STRANGLING ME!" Harry shrieked, breathing quick and panting as he was still trying to regain lost oxygen, "I HAVEN'T EVEN HAD DINNER YET!" He repeated it like it had some more of a significance.

Harry noticed that he was clenching his both hands tighter and tighter as he screamed into the taller boy's face, seeming immune to the burning pain that began burning at his right wrist again.

When the burn hit, Harry realized he was also still clutching at Tom Riddle's right hand with his left, gripping so hard that his fingers made bold chalky imprints on the extremely pale hand. Upon realization, he angrily threw away the hand with a large incensed flourish like it was the dirtiest thing he had ever had the misfortune of touching.

_Screw being friends! _He furiously thought, _Screw Tom-freaking-Riddle! Stupid prat! Stupid, murderous, two-faced prick! Wanking wanker! Pricking prick! Prating prat!_

"We're not friends anymore, you prat-faced wank!" Harry screeched, unmindful of the vulgar choice of words (he had heard them used by Mr. Cole on a bad night, and now he had an opportunity to use them to—hoorah), "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU TRIED TO KILL ME!" he yelled once more, like repeating it would garner some sort of answer.

Tom Riddle slowly stepped away from Harry, impassive once more. Simply staring.

"I can't believe you tried to kill me," repeated Harry, softer and more incredulous, "I, I, I can't b-believe you tried to k-kill me." Cold, wet tears began sliding down already damp cheeks. He blinked hard. "I can't believer you tried to—" His sentence remained unfinished when blinking really fast did nothing but hasten the quick flow of tears.

The shock of it all, paired with the scalding pain of his wrist, made Harry blubber out hideously, tears tumbling down ruddy cheeks. He could feel his nose running down as well, making him cry all the more.

Harry was crying, sobbing, and sniveling like he hadn't ever before. The tears just came and came as he tried to breath through his clogging up nose.

Through tear-blurred eyes, Harry could see Tom Riddle still standing two feet away, still staring at him. But instead of the cold, unremorseful look from before, his clear green eyes held to be what seemed to be an exposed collection of shock, disbelief, and utter look of 'what the hell am I supposed to be doing?'

The look was rather out of place on Tom Riddle's face, which the rest apart from the eyes had somehow remained in its default state of stoicism, and made it all the more comical.

If little Harry hadn't been busy unashamedly crying out almost a literal river (it was at least a small puddle), he probably would have laughed at the sight of stiff-spined, straight-faced Tom Riddle with that stupefied look in his eyes.

Tom Riddle looked as if he was about to move forward to do something, _anything_, but a twitch of a forefinger was enough for Harry to dramatically flinch away while attempting to messily wipe at his face with the whole forearm of his sweater.

Tom Riddle almost looked _rejected_, but Harry didn't care as he flashed angry teary eyes up at the other boy. _How __**dare**__ he look rejected! _He mentally screamed and thrashed at the sight of the look. _How dare he look at me like __**I'm**__ in the wrong! How. Dare. He._

Tom Riddle stepped back further, almost looking apprehensive—another odd emotion coming from the older boy.

"Stop," he demanded, tone commanding but just nearly bordering uncertain, "Stop crying."

That only made Harry cry harder in anger and frustration, wailing at the unfairness of the situation. _Where's __**my**__ apology? _He demanded in his mind, his mouth to busy crying out senseless noise to speak. _I had to, had, __**had to**__, apologize to him when he was __**strangling**__ me! Where is it? Where's my apology!?_

"W-where?" he managed, a choppy blubbering noise that could have been just another sob. When there wasn't a reply, Harry cried even louder. "W-where? I, I, I, I! H-how _dare_ y-y-you!? W-w-w-where is it, you stupid a-a-ass, uh, stupid, a-assclown!?"

Tom Riddle really looked clueless now. Emotionless mask crack as his eyebrows lifted in a sort of incredulous surprise, confused at what exactly was being demanded from him.

This look should have made Harry laugh in glee for finally cracking the stone-face of Tom Riddle, but it made him more furious than ever.

"I, I, I HATE YOU, TOM RIDDLE!" he screamed, not minding the volume, "I REALLYREALLY_REALLY_ HATE YOU! T-TOM RIDDLE, I HATE YOU! WE ARE NO LONGER FRIENDS! I HATEHATE_HATE_ YOU!"

Tom Riddle had the gall to look affronted, but as he was about to reply to the proclamation of hatred, the dining hall doors slammed open to reveal an angry Mrs. Cole.

Harry knew that this where he was supposed stop sobbing like a little girl, but it seems like the signal–response function in his four-year-old brain just doesn't work that way.

...

...

...

Harry Potter hates Tom Riddle, and there's nothing to know about that.

* * *

...


End file.
